Staircase Light

Angels that staple themselves to my tables are no longer welcome at anything I’m able to think of that could ever possibly be. A sign at the door will say, Angels – Leave and even though with their make-up and outfits and wings they look honestly like the most beautiful things that God Itself could ever create – if they should ask me I will not hesitate to say, “I do not care if you wear divine glow – You staple yourself to a table, you go.”

Somewhere a boy in Malaysia works days making tables for girls to slam when they say, “Why don’t you give a fuck about me? What did I do? Tell me and I’ll leave – I won’t scream or cry (until you can’t see), just answer me answer me answer me- please”. But boys in Malaysia don’t dream of the wagers of proving your love through orders of danger, through haphazard staples at all the wrong angles, always repeating in that private language your most cherished phrases, always repeating them in that one voice.